Three Nods in Passing to These, Our Good Friends
by Satiah
Summary: In this short history, we simply endeavor to record the briefest of visits to our friends and our friends' friends, those worthies who inhabit Dzur Mountain.


___Khaavren Romances _© Steven Brust

... ... ...

In the succinct style of the great Paarfi of Roundwood, it should first be explained that the original title of this text, indeed, bestows "Three Nods in Passing to These, Our Good _and Loyal_ Friends"; however, the publisher has deemed such a title as, simply, "Too long to print." To this we ask the question: How so? But, alas, such a question is not to be answered, and therefore, our tale should be introduced with a manner of all due haste. Our compilation of three stories seeks to illuminate for the reader the briefest of glances into those few instances either overlooked or deemed unnecessary to Sir Paarfi, and they have been recorded ever so diligently here, among the lost archives. But are they indeed lost if they are thusly recorded? And, seeing as they _have_ been recorded, for an historian that is but the greatest of achievements; therefore, we believe they are not so lost as one may first suppose. For, if no one records the truth or the matter or the event, who then shall be left to read it?

-Text compiled and introduced, as always, by Circila of Ravensnest; House of the Hawk

_... ... ..._

_Event One, as Recorded:_

Aerich retreated a step, falling into his graceful movements with the ease of a noble befitting his House: first was the dodge, then twice the parry, a dodge again, and a step. Keeping his vambraces crossed protectively in front of his chest, sharpened poniard steady in one hand, sword in the other, he patiently allowed his opponent to advance. As per his usual preference for playtime combat, he remained on the defensive: never striking, always watching.

The opening offered by a shifting of his opponent's weight was slight, true, but it was the opportunity he had been waiting for; he therefore took advantage of it because it would make for a most assured victory, and skilled Lyorn warriors never struck to miss. He smiled with good-natured satisfaction as his opponent's root was abruptly interrupted by a well-placed boot, and Khaavren tumbled to the dirt, having tripped over Aerich's outstretched foot.

"Well," Pel murmured in amusement from his observational perch atop a nearby boulder. "I don't believe I've had the honor of seeing the execution of _that_ particular move before, my dear friend."

Aerich simply shrugged and extended a hand to his fallen friend. Khaavren, having since recovered from the shock of finding himself thrown so suddenly off-balance, smiled warmly and accepted the hand graciously, pulling himself to his feet with a chuckle. Upon arising, he proceeded to wipe the dirt from his breeches. Pel, meanwhile, had endeavored to retrieve Khaavren's fallen sword, and with his amused smile still fixed on his handsome face, handed it back to its rightful owner with no little ceremony.

As for our noble Dzurlord, well, she could be found sitting nearby beneath the leaves of a tall sycamore tree. She had wrapped her arms around her stomach and laughed heartily, pausing only long enough to draw the scantest of breaths and swipe away an occasional escaped tear.

... ... ...

_Event Two, as Recorded:_

Khaavren wasn't entirely sure what to make of the scene before him. The good Mica, Tazendra's loyal lackey, appeared to be nervously sitting atop his trusty barstool, gazing at the campfire with such intensity the Tiassa was certain it would have exploded into a raging inferno had Mica ever acquired even an ounce of his master's sorcerous proficiency.

Curious (as he _was_ a Tiassa and therefore had a natural disposition towards such things as curiosity), Khaavren sauntered toward the cooking-fire, promptly discovering not only a most agreeable aroma wafting through the crisp night air, but also his good friend Tazendra herself, seated before the fire in what appeared to be a manner of great concentration.

Tazendra, as it were, appeared nearly to be cooking! Perplexed by this turn of events (for Khaavren hadn't known his friend could cook), Khaavren approached the campfire and hovered near Tazendra's right shoulder, peeking over to glance at the contents of the well worn, cast iron cooking-pot. Within, he discovered a frothy mixture of brown, bubbling broth; its roiling surface occasionally exposed what appeared to be a variety of vegetables mixed together with a dash of colorful peppers. Drawing in a deep breath (with which he took great pleasure in savoring the delicious aroma) Khaavren leaned forward and allowed his altitude-chilled face to enjoy the wafting warmth provided by such mouthwatering steam.

"I wouldn't do that, were I you," the Dzurlord said simply.

"Oh?" Khaavren asked, raising one inquisitive eyebrow even while he stepped back as advised. "And why is that?"

"Oh, you wish to know?"

"Yes. You perceive, the truth is that I asked."

"That is true," Tazendra remarked. "Then I shall be glad to tell you."

"I am listening."

"This is it, then: this fine cooking-pot, in which a hearty stew of boiled vegetables; tender peppers; flavorful spices; and fresh kethna meat, caught and prepared just this afternoon, simmer - "

"Yes?"

" - well, it spits."

"It spits?"

"It is as I have had the honor to tell you. It spits."

"Well," Khaavren said. "And what does it spit?"

"Your eye," a smooth voice interjected, as, indeed, Pel appeared within the boundaries of the circle illuminated by the presence of the cooking-fire, wearing a fresh bandage around his head, covering, as it were, his left eye.

Khaavren looked from Pel to the approaching figure of Aerich who was busily rolling an unused length of bandages. Aerich, noticing the movement, met Khaavren's inquiring gaze and shrugged as if to say, _I perceive Pel's response did not sufficiently answer your inquiry, my friend, but nonetheless, what has occurred is exactly as you have been told._

Khaavren, nodding his head in affirmation, once more regarded Pel before turning his attention to the innocently bubbling pot. "Ah," he said thoughtfully, contemplating upon the scenario he had just been witness to, "it appears that I comprehend the situation entirely: Tazendra does not cook."

Pel couldn't have agreed more.

... ... ...

_Event Three, as Recorded:_

Sethra Lavode strode through her domain with the single-focused intensity of a dzur on the hunt. Her strides were long, purposeful, and determined; her boots click-clacking the announcement of her arrival upon floors of bare, resounding stone. Although scowling, the Enchantress' visage remained dangerously beautiful, if a bit pale in the meager light (seeing as she _was_ undead, as it were), but set in a look of such fierce concentration it would have made an entire contingent of highly trained soldiers quake and flee before they dared entertain even the slightest idea of interrupting her.

Something was amiss within the walls of Dzur Mountain this night, and the Enchantress was far from pleased by the anomaly.

As it happened, her good servant, Tukko, remained nowhere in sight, despite her diligent (if increasingly irritable) searchings for his person over the course of the last half-hour. Tukko, although aged in years, had never once responded so belatedly to her summons during his time of faithful service; and never once had he so blatantly gone on to _ignore_ the repeated calls of his mistress entirely. Yet today he had done so, and Dzur Mountain itself had yet to reveal _why_.

Considering the matter turned vexation into mild curiosity, but it was far from the truth to say she was anything less than annoyed by having to seek out her very own servant so late into the starless evening. Muttering to herself as she made her way down a never-ending flight of stairs leading to the easternmost side of the kitchen, Sethra half-expected the Mountain to at least present to her an idea as to where her servant had fled. (The other half expected it to stay quiet, and needless to say, this half of her mind was not disappointed in the least by the Mountain's lacking response.) Pushing hard on the doors, Sethra Lavode strode through the threshold and abruptly confronted the cause of her annoyance.

"Tukko," she said.

"Yes, my Lady?" he answered with a raised eyebrow and a slightly awkward bow in her direction.

"What are you doing?"

"Attempting to best the Sorceress in Green, my Lady," the servant said, gesturing with a smaller bow to the woman sitting across from him at the kitchen's lone wooden table.

"How, what is this?" asked Sethra when she spied a mess of splayed cards and uniform-less buttons upon the table. "Divination games to prepare for the morrow's engagement?"

"No," the Sorceress said as her long fingers elegantly selected a card from a pile to her left. "It happens to be a variant form of the Easterner's game of poker."

"Poker?"

"Indeed, it is so."

"But why are you playing _poker_?" Sethra asked, pivoting upon her boot heel to again face her servant.

"Because our guest simply demanded it," Tukko replied with a shrug. "It is not my place to deny her requests."

"And it is, therefore, because of _this_," Sethra paused to gesture at the Sorceress' card-filled hand, "that you have neglected to respond to your master's summons?"

Tukko glanced down at his own hand of cards for a moment, slowly replying after his wrinkled digits had selected one to discard. "My Lady, that is to say-"

"Yes?"

"-yes. That is exactly it."

Sethra looked incredulously from her servant to her broadly smiling guest. "What is it?" she asked when she saw the Sorceress fail to conceal the smallest of giggles, certainly not keeping a straight enough visage to hide her growing mirth. Sethra wondered how it was that Tukko could be losing if this was his opponent's so-called poker face.

"Your servant is such a gentleman," the Sorceress said.

Sethra rolled her eyes and briskly left the kitchen, leaving the two to their own trivialities as she attended to more pressing matters. "Honestly," she spoke aloud to none but herself, despite having an audience with the ever-present ears of Dzur Mountain itself, "to think of it! Gambling idly when there are armies to ready, provisions to transport, routes to secure, and all manner of citizenry to relocate!" But despite her abating ire, the Enchantress smiled because her good friend the Sorceress in Green had quite proven her point: if Sethra Lavode was going to do something about the upcoming battle on the morrow, she wouldn't face it alone. The Sorceress would be standing there beside her, and if it took an inconvenience caused by the abduction of a servant or two to draw the Enchantress' attention to this fact, well, it was obviously within both the Sorceress' will and power to do so.

Living in solitude and isolation for so many endless centuries tended to cause one to forget how lonely they, indeed, were not. Sethra smiled again as she opened the doors to her own private chambers, discovering the bath had already been drawn and made ready for her arrival by the subtle hand of the good and faithful Tukko mere moments before.


End file.
